I don't trust easy but I trust you
by violent darlings
Summary: Sarah's looking for allies in all the wrong places. Most of the time. Or: bleeding out, recast as romantic.


_**i**_

You manage to crawl into your car, one hand pressed against the wound at your midsection. By rights you should stop and try to fix it, but there's not enough time and your hand isn't steady enough on the wheel, let alone a needle. Not to mention your medical kit is practically depleted.

Luckily, there's allies in the area. Well, maybe an ally. Maybe he'll put another hole in you to match the current one oozing blood.

The drive takes an hour and a half; by rights it should take over three but you red-line it all the way. Night passes gently into dawn, and the sun is just cresting over the horizon when you park Kitten out the front of Singer Salvage Yard. You like Kitten for a lot of reasons; she's fast, she's tough, the backseat is just big enough for you to stretch out and sleep. You'll be sorry to see her go.

You leave most of your gear in the car, taking just a knife and a handgun. No sense in wandering around with no protection, even if Rufus did say this guy was all right. You knock on the front door, and it swings open. You get the impression you've been watched since the moment you pulled up, and you size up the guy sizing you up. He's a weathered, older guy with a scruffy beard and a trucker cap on his head, even indoors. Like you, he looks like he's been up all night, and like you, he's armed.

Rather abruptly, you find yourself staring down the barrel of a sawn-off. "This how you treat all guests?" you rasp.

"Only the unexpected ones covered in blood. Who the hell are you?" he asks gruffly.

"Sarah. I'm a hunter."

"I guessed," he returns dryly, gesturing to your necklace. And, you suppose, to the gun tucked into your waistband. "Doesn't mean I should help you."

"I know a friend of yours. Rufus."

"Wouldn't exactly call Rufus a friend," he replies. "We'll see about that. In the meanwhile, you know the drill." You're already reaching for your silver blade, even as he hands you a flask of holy water.

"Rufus said you were a good man to know if ever I had an emergency on my hands," you say, leaning against the doorjamb, feeling more blood trickle out the hole in your belly. The guy regards it without expression.

"You should be in hospital with a wound like that," he says, voice neutral, and you nod tightly.

"I agree. But I'm not in great standing with the law enforcement in this country. I'm also kind of here illegally. It's a risk I can't really take." You can see the emotions warring in his eyes. "Please," you add spontaneously. "Just sew me up and I'll be out of your hair."

He shakes his head, mutters, "The things I do," and turns away, heading deeper into the house. "You coming, girl?" he shouts, and gingerly you step over the threshold. The house is a monument to everything hunting: salt, guns, papers, and more arcane books than you've ever seen in your life. Your inner geek wants to get your hands on them, but the rest of you is exhausted.

"I take it you're Mr Singer, then," you say, slumping down onto the sofa in the library/study, reaching instinctively for one of the books. A hard smack on your hand forces you to pull away as he drags over another chair and opens up a medical kit.

"You get shot?" he asks as he snaps on a pair of gloves. It's gruff, unimpressed, but underneath you can hear a smidgen of concern.

"No, it's just a laceration. A deep one," you amend when he scoffs, "But just a laceration. Hurts like a bitch, though." He probes the wound gently, but the pain is already enough to have you seeing stars.

"What's that accent?" he asks, and you're dimly aware he's trying to distract you. "Lift up your shirt." Wincing, you peel the damn thing off.

"Abrasions on my back," you reply in response to his lifted eyebrow. "Australian."

"What's an Australian hunter doing in South Dakota?" he asks, producing a bottle of spirits and sterile gauze. "This'll sting."

"No shit," you gasp out a moment later, breathing in the whisky fumes in vain hope of a hit. "Um. Wanted a holiday, got sick of hunting. Took a one way flight to LA, and four days later this chick got her throat cut. Pissed off ghost." You lift a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

"Don't move!"

"Sorry. So I just sort of got back into it. America's not so different to home, really. A hell of a lot more people, and less native animals trying to kill you. More supernatural shit, though." Thoughtfully, you regard the whisky bottle he's set nearby, and slug it back with your free hand. "For instance, never met a fucking wendigo back home."

"That what almost spilled your guts out?" he asks, beginning to stitch the ugly wound.

"Nah. Wendigo was months back. This was a garden variety dead guy who liked to throw rakes around."

"Thought it looked like a rake," he grunts. "Stupid girl."

"Hey! I'm not stupid! I salted and burned the bastard. I know what I'm doing," you add defensively. "American hunters. You're all mental." By this point he's moved onto the gravely abrasions on your upper back, hands gentle as he cleans the road dirt from the wounds. "Oh, I see what you're doing. You're trying to distract me."

"And is it working?" he asks. Pain throbs in your belly, your shoulders, your knees, in everything.

"No. Keep insulting me. That should do the trick."

He chuckles dryly, and you smile in spite of the pain and your wounds and that you haven't eaten or slept in about twenty eight hours. He finishes binding your shoulders and stands up, fumbling in the medicine kit for something. "Take these." He flings a bottle of painkillers in your general direction, followed by a glass of water from the kitchen.

"Don't throw that, I'm not up to catching it," you joke weakly, knocking back two of the tablets, weariness clawing at your limbs. You would happily sleep here, even with the corner of a book digging into your spine, even in blood soaked jeans.

"Here. You look like you need this." You crack open an eyelid and discover that he is not, unfortunately, holding alcohol. Not that mixing pills and booze is such a great idea, anyway. He's holding a sandwich, and your brain can't stop your hands from grabbing it.

"My hero," you say with your mouth full. He chuckles grimly.

"When you're finished, there's a spare room upstairs. Go get some sleep."

"Sleep," you echo happily as he walks out into the yard. "That's a great idea." It's a spectacular idea, but you don't make it upstairs. You don't even make it off the sofa.

When you wake up, it's dark, and you reach blindly for a weapon before remembering where you are. You're in a small, shabby bedroom, not shabby from lack of money but more from lack of love. Even in here there is books stored on the dresser, on the shelves. He must have carried you up here, you realise dimly, because you sure as shit weren't getting up here under your own steam.

You stumble down the stairs still in your jeans and what's left of your tank top. You find him in the library, conversing in fluent Japanese over the phone. He shoots you a glare of pure 'fuck off, I'm busy' and you take the hint, going out the front to grab clean clothes and a toothbrush from Kitten. "I'm gonna use your shower," you call out to him.

"Keep your stitches dry!" is the only response.

If your life was a story, or maybe a soap opera, then he'd burst in just as you're wrapping the towel around yourself. You'd let it drop seductively to the floor, the cheesy music would start, and the screen would fade to black. But you're not in a movie or a novel. Your life is real, and so instead you take a scalding hot shower, moving gingerly around the wound at your stomach, and contemplate what you're going to do next. Aside from get dressed, you mean.

Scarcely have you stepped down the stairs when he reappears. Damn, but he can move quietly. "There's a case," he says abruptly. "A couple of states over. A couple murdered in their hotel room, door locked from the inside. No windows. No way in, no way out. Thought you might like to take a look." He hands you the manila file. It's short, perfunctory, but all the information's there. "I can't go do it myself. I was going to call one of the hunters I know, but…"

"I'm a hunter," you reply. "And you know me. I'll go and check it out." Hesitating for a moment, you decide to ask what's on your mind. "Do you do this for other hunters, then? Patch them up, let them crash on your sofa?"

"I do," he replies gravely. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing," you reply hastily. "Just, that, uh.."

"Spit it out, girl," he advises.

"If I get, you know, slashed up again, or whatever… can I come back here?" You cross your fingers behind your back. You don't really have anyone to rely on here in the US. You only know Rufus through a friend of a friend from back home, and he's not exactly Mr Congeniality.

"Fine," he snaps, but you know him a little better now, and you can detect the amusement beneath the brusqueness. "Anything else I can get you, or will that be all?" You smile at the obvious sarcasm.

"Brad Pitt and a million dollars?" you ask lightly, and he scoffs.

"Do I look like a crossroads demon to you?"

_**ii**_

It's around four in the afternoon when you pull into Bobby's place. You're grey with tiredness from three days without sleep and you can't afford a motel. You'd happily crash out on the floor if it meant you could sleep somewhere other than Kitten's back seat. Your neck is getting a serious crick; what used to be comfortable is now unbearable.

You bang on the front door and instead of a grizzled, sarky hunter, you're confronted by a crazy tall guy that it hurts your neck to look up at. Another guy peers around the corner, beer in hand, and that's how you meet the infamous Winchester brothers.

Honestly, you're not that impressed. They're good-looking men, there's no doubt about it, but the older one's eyes slide over you like you're made of glass. The younger one, Sam, is politer, but you can sense he's itching to hare off into Bobby's book collection. You don't mind; you frequently have the same reaction, after all.

Of course, your opening line of, "So you're the fuckwits who let the Devil's Gate be opened?" may not have been the best choice. The tall one gets all broody and the other one glares daggers at you for the rest of the evening. Later, Bobby says to you, "You know, I'm one of those fuckwits, too." You've had a reasonable amount of alcohol by that point, and everything is all warm and fuzzy around the edges.

"I know," you point out drowsily. "I just like giving people a hard time." Bobby's mouth twists into a thin, ugly line.

"They're _already _having a hard time. Dean's going to hell, and Sam's -"

"Yeah, I know the whole song and dance already. And don't get me wrong, I feel sorry for them. But come on. A lot of the shit on top of them, they heaped there themselves."

"A demon killed their mother. And their father. And -"

"And a vampire killed my boyfriend and our one year old." He falls silent, and there it is, out in the open. The secret you've guarded so zealously, as though to speak of Greg and Jenny would be sacrilege. As though it would crack open the great, yawning gulf of grief inside of you. But the alcohol has rendered you mostly numb and you can only feel the shadow of that horrendous pain. But oh, tomorrow. Tomorrow it will be unbearable.

"I didn't know," he says quietly, after long minutes have passed.

"I never told you," you counter tiredly. "It was years ago now."

"You never think about revenge?"

"Nope," you reply calmly enough, but you can hear the way your voice shakes. "See, by the time I found out who had killed my family, by the time I caught up with him, he was already dead. Had an argument with another guy in his nest, and the other guy ripped his head off. No vengeance to be had. So now I kill bad things in the hope that no other families will be torn apart. I don't always succeed, but I try." You lift the bottle to your lips once more. "Now, can we stop talking about this, for Christ's sake?"

That's when the Winchesters come back. Eyeing them as you slump back in your chair, you think you've hit upon why you don't really like them. They're just too familiar. You've known guys like that your entire life. You went to school with them, uni with them, hunted with them. Guys like that always fall for the hot, glamorous girls, not the plain ones. And most of the time, you're OK with that. You're built for comfort, not style; function over elegance. You can kill most things you come across and damn the rest, but you don't wear a size zero and get your nails done. It's strictly logical, after all. You need muscle to take the hits that monsters are so fond of dishing out, and nails? Try pulling a trigger with a French manicure. Unthinkable.

But still, there's that tiny traitorous part of you that wants to fit in. To be approved of by these sexy men. You're a stranger in a strange country, for all that they speak the same language and Australia has been hopelessly globalised by America. You miss the dusty red roads of the Outback, the briny scent of the sea, marginally different to the oceans here. Hell, you even miss kangaroos, annoying fucking jumping creatures that they are.

And just because you're having a shitty day is no reason to take it out on the Winchesters, even if they did loose like a hundred demons on the world.

"Bobby told me you two hunted a killer clown?" you ask to fill the silence, and pass them both a beer. "There's got to be a story behind that." Haltingly, the younger one, Sam, starts to talk, and soon his brother is interjecting every couple of sentences, with Bobby adding a word here or there. Slowly, the tense atmosphere in the room eases, and you lean back in your chair, let your eyes flutter, and listen.

If Bobby shoots you a quick, appreciative glance, then. Well. You're not looking, anyway.

_**iii**_

It hits you hard, to hear that joking, kind of a dick Dean Winchester has gone to hell. It just doesn't seem right, a man so full of life to be dragged down into the pit. But life goes on and the job takes up more and more of your time, and the last time you called Bobby he sounded out of his head on booze and grief. And maybe you're a coward, but most days you can barely cope with your own grief, for your own lost loved ones. So you steer clear of Sioux Falls and immerse yourself in work. Demons don't stop possessing people just because you're worried about a friend.

And then, of course, because life's all about fucking curve balls, Dean comes back from hell. And, uh, angels. Fucking angels. You hear it through the proverbial grapevine - you're not important enough to warrant a call from the boys themselves, and that's just how you like it. Fly beneath the radar, and stay safe there. Information filters down to you eventually.

You don't know why you're not haunted by the spirits stirred into wakefulness by the rising of the Witnesses. Oh, you're no different to anybody else; there are people you've failed to save. But even as you're aware of other hunters getting killed, your restless dead stay stubbornly silent. Part of you wishes for Jenny and Greg even as the rest of you knows they'd try to kill you, that they're not truly the people you lost. Rabid animals, forced into rising. You wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy, and yet. Yet.

Bobby calls you, his voice distracted and urgent. He lets you know what's going on and hangs up before you can reply, "Actually, no, I haven't seen any dead people I let die." From calling other hunters, you gather that more than a dozen have been slaughtered, but Bobby and the Winchesters know what they're about, and soon it's over.

Still a good reason to go visit your friend, though.

He answers the door looking exhausted, for all it's only 11am. "You look like shit," you blurt, but he just quirks a tired smile.

"As charming as ever," he says dryly as you slice your arm and bolt the holy water. "You don't appear to be bleeding out this time, so to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Childishly you sneer at him, but you sober quickly. "I wanted to see how you are." His smile fades, and he stomps across the room to his desk.

"If one more idjit tries to check on me…" he mutters darkly. "I'm fine. It was a few ghosts. Not exactly the end of the world."

"No," you reply tiredly, sinking down onto the sofa. Ah, bliss. "It appears the end of the world is going on out there." He glances at you sharply.

"What makes you say that?" You shrug.

"It just seems like all the evil stuff is stepping up its game. You know. Possessions and hauntings have skyrocketed."

"You're not wrong," he replies. Eyeing you, he adds, "Admit it. You came here because you need to sleep on my couch again."

"That too," you reply, elbowing a book out the way and using another as a pillow. A hard, pointy edged pillow, but you've had worse. "I heard Dean Winchester got out of hell."

"So?" he asks, already immersed in a stack of papers.

"I also heard that angels are real," you continue. At that, he looks up.

"Who told you that?"

"A demon I exorcised a few days ago. Dude was terrified. Ranting and raving about God and angels and smiting. Very dramatic, even by demonic standards." You raise your gaze to find he can't look you in the eye.

"Demons lie," he replies evasively. You scoff.

"Uh huh, sure. I know that. But he wasn't the first time I've heard it. Everywhere I go, it seems all I hear is angel. From demons, ghosts - I even contacted the other side. They all confirm it."

"So?" he repeats. You gape incredulously.

"_So_? So what the hell is going on? Why do angels care about the Winchesters? Why are they popping up again like bad pennies? How do you fight them? What the hell is going on?"

His eyes are tired, his hair unkempt. Bobby is usually scruffy, but this is a new level of scruff. "I have no idea," he says dully, and it's the first thing he's said all day that has the ring of truth.

_**iv **_

"Something's wrong with Kitten!" you whimper over the phone.

"Kitten?" Bobby asks incredulously.

"My car!"

"You named your car Kitten?"

"She purrs!"

"I'm guessing she's not purring now," he says dryly.

So you can change a tyre, check your oil levels, peer under the bonnet and sort of guess what is wrong. But that bizarre crunching noise Kitten is making is enough to freak you the hell out, and you have no idea what to do. And it's not like you know any mechanics or anything -

Ah.

Which brings you to the current conversation.

"Can you drive it?" he asks impatiently.

"Yes, but what if she dies on the way there?" you ask plaintively. So Kitten's your weak spot. You get a little pathetic where your car's concerned. You pour all your love into this vehicle, because you haven't got anything else to pour it into.

"Steal a tow truck," he advises, and hangs up. Which leaves you to drive from Chicago to Bobby's place, wincing every time Kitten makes that horrendous grinding noise. "Sorry, honey, sorry," you keep saying, stroking the dashboard tenderly. Kitten is nothing special. Nothing like the classic cars most hunters drive. She's barely ten years old, a neutral grey colour. Kitten screams 'below the radar'. And sure, she's nothing special, but she's yours.

Bobby comes out the house to meet you as you pull up. "You're right, there's something wrong," he comments.

"Don't say that!" you cry out, jumping out of the car. "You can fix her, right?" He fixes you with a level gaze.

"I've seen you covered in blood with a hole in your guts and you were less panicked than this. Relax. Of course I can fix it. I am a mechanic, you know."

"That's why I'm here," you snark back. "I take it you've got something for me while you're fixing her?" You wave a hand at the folder he's carrying. "What, I don't even get to sit down and have a cup of tea?"

"Tea," he scoffs. "Want a couple of crumpets with that?"

"Actually, I was hoping for scones. Jam and cream, please."

"Ha ha," is the only response from under Kitten's bonnet. "This'll take me a couple of days. It's your -"

"Whoa!" you cut him off. "I don't need to know. Thinking about Kitten's inner workings makes me feel nauseous. Just… gimme that." You snatch the file from where he's left it on the porch. It looks like a fairly straightforward witch situation. You really wanted a nap, but beggars can't be choosers. "I take it you've got something for me to drive in the meanwhile?"

"Yeah," Bobby says absentmindedly, already elbow deep in Kitten. "Go sleep on the couch for a while first. You look half dead."

"So kind," you reply, scooping your bag out the back of Kitten. "I might raid your pantry while I'm there."

"Sure, make yourself at home."

"Sarcasm?"

"What the hell do you think?"

Seven hours later, you wake up and feel like a human again for the first time in weeks. Still grotty and grimy, still wearing the same knickers you put on three days ago, but human. Human and starving, and in desperate need of a shower and clean clothes. Bobby has returned to his library, but there's a smudge of something from Kitten's engine smeared on his brow. It's kind of endearing, in a weird way. "I feel bad," you confess, tying your hair back even as it drips wetly down your back. You're down to your dodgy jeans and your last clean shirt; you'd better do some laundry in between witch hunting.

"Why's that?" he asks.

"I use your place like a rest stop," you reply. "I come here bruised and battered, dirty, hungry, about ready to fall over from exhaustion. You fix me up - or fix Kitten up, in this case - and send me on my way."

"Doesn't make you any different to all the other hunters I know," he retorts. "Quid pro quo, girl. You help me when I need it and I help you when you do."

"Sounds kind of like we're friends," you say lightly.

"Of course we are, idjit, now get going."

You borrow a battered old van and hit the highway. This shitty van has nothing on Kitten's suspension and you feel every bump along the way. But it's only a couple of hours drive and the witch is relatively easy to find, considering some of them are like Olympic level at evading capture. A young, sweet-faced thing, right up until she starts rambling on in Latin and what sounds like Aramaic and you're slammed up against the wall. Usual affair, she starts droning on about how she is ancient in treachery and cannot be vanquished by a mere mortal like yourself. A waver in concentration, just for a moment, when she's recounting her exploits around the turn of the century, and it's enough for you to seize the knife you always carry tucked in your boot and embed it into her skull.

In the dark of night you load her body into the back of the van and burn her on the outskirts of town. It startles you sometimes, how used to this life you are. Before Greg and Jenny died, you wouldn't even kill a spider.

Three days after you drop Kitten at Bobby's, you return in the demon van, as you've taken to calling it. Kitten is as good as new and spontaneously you fling your arms around Bobby before wandering off to stroke your car and call her a good girl. Bobby just calls you an idjit and heads back inside, and in celebration you decide to get staggeringly drunk.

What you've forgotten, of course, is that for you there's a fine line between happy drunk and miserable weeping drunk, and you passed that line about four shots ago. Bobby matches you drink for drink but his tolerance is a hell of a lot higher than yours, and he listens to you ramble, mostly silent but for the occasional interjection.

And because you're a miserable drunk, you tell him about your family.

"I was working the graveyard shift at a hospital in Sydney as a nurse," you begin. "Greg was home with Jenny, and, I don't know, he must have left a window open. It was summer, summer in Australia is mental and the air con in our house was pretty shit. Anyway, they came in through the window and found Greg in the living room with Jenny." For a moment, you hesitate. You've never told anyone this before.

"There was two of them. One had already fed and he watched while the other killed Greg." Your voice catches, but you force yourself to go on. "At some point, I don't know when, Jenny woke up. She was crying, and they were afraid they'd bring someone running, so they snapped her neck." You hate the way your voice goes flat and dead like that, but you don't have a choice in the matter. "Then they drained Greg dry and left him on the floor. I found them around 8am the next morning when I got home from work."

"How'd you find out it was vampires?" he asks, and the compassion in his voice hurts more than anything has in a long time.

"This guy came around asking weird questions. Like, really weird. Mentioned things like sulfur and cold spots and scratching in the walls. I thought he was nuts, until I found out Greg had been exsanguinated. Barely a drop of blood left in him. So I tracked down this guy and he told me everything. None of that 'you don't need to know' shit, he told me about everything he knew of that hid in the dark. He was leaving town in a couple of days, on the tail of the things that had killed my family, but he had a poltergeist to wrap up first. It left me a couple of days to get my affairs into order."

"So I quit my job, rented out my house to a friend, and asked him to take me with him. We were on their trail for a month before we lost them, so we went to take care of a haunting in Adelaide and a couple werewolves up near the Flinders Ranges. It was near on a year before we caught wind of those vampires, and by then…"

"By then the one who did it was dead."

"Correct," you reply, and take a long hard swig of whisky. Too long, too hard, and tears come into your eyes that you can't blame on the alcohol no matter how much you want to. You struggle against sobs for only moments before giving in. it's the first time you've cried since you left Australia, and the hurt is as wrenching now as it was then. "They killed my baby," you choke out, and a strong arm wraps around your shoulders.

"Hush, now," Bobby says roughly, as though soothing a child. "Come on now, girl. None of that."

There's tears on your cheeks and in your throat and you're desperate to feel something other than this crushing in your chest. And from here it's easy, so easy to lift your chin and press your lips to his. His beard scratches lightly against your skin and he tastes of hard liquor and compassion, and you angle your head against his and brush your tongue against his.

He pulls away roughly, leaving you breathless and confused. His eyes are dark like ink, all pupil, and his mouth is red from where you bit lightly at his lip.

"I can't," he says, and, "I'm sorry," and, "Stupid girl." You gasp out a laugh before the magnitude of your actions comes to you, and you want to punch yourself in the face.

"It's me who should be sorry," you answer. "I should go." You stumble to your feet, but he pushes you back down with laughable ease.

"You're in no fit state to go anywhere," he replies. "Sleep, Sarah. You won't even remember this in the morning."

But you've never been one to have blackouts from booze, and you wake before dawn in a shameful sweat. You sneak out and get into Kitten, slinging your bag into the passenger seat, and drive out of there as fast as you can, as though trying to outrun yourself.

**_v_**

Shame and embarrassment kept you from retuning to Singer Salvage Yard for a while, and it might have kept you a good deal longer had the apocalypse not started. The end off the world sort of changes things, even if you have made a dick of yourself in front of a friend.

That's not the only thing in the world that's changed. you knock on the front door, hear a yelled, "It's open!" which startles you. No glare, no holy water and salt and silver? Dusk has just fallen and the interior of the house is dark, but you make your way into the library from familiarity alone. You can see him sitting in the middle of the room, his familiar profile enough to bring a smile back to your face.

"Hey, Bobby," you say into the darkness, straining your eyes to see. Has he moved a chair or something? There didn't used to be one over there -

He clicks the light on, and then you understand. Horror-stricken, you take in the chair, the lessened muscle tone of his legs. Atrophy, you remember it's called, from a time you helped to save people's lives with medication and surgery, rather than a .45 and devil's traps. And while you're not the kind of superficial idiot to be horrified by a wheelchair, you're nevertheless struck a little dumb. Because Bobby is one of the most active blokes you've ever met, and to be confined to a wheelchair… The gods, or the God, or whichever arsehole exists - he's a cruel bastard.

But it's still Bobby. He points a gun at you the whole time you go through the usual process. Then and only then does he relax enough to put the weapon down, although he keeps it close.

"I heard you were going back to Australia," he says, wheeling himself back to the desk. You follow, awkwardly aware of your ease of movement, the strength of your legs, and plop down gratefully into a seat.

"I was. Booked a plane ticket and all, but hey, apocalypse. Seems Australia isn't riddled with angels and demons fighting like toddlers over a chocolate bar, so I elected to stay on."

"Still a stupid girl," he says, shuffling his papers. "You'll probably be killed in a few months."

"More than likely," you agree blithely. "Bobby…" At your tone he looks up, and whatever he sees in your face makes him flinch. "What the fuck happened?"

"Demons," he replies, two syllables and one word and enough to break your heart.

"Is that it? Just 'demons'?"

"_Demons_," he repeats, stressing the word.

"Why don't I believe you?" you wonder, turning your face up to the ceiling as though asking it what it thinks.

"Believe me or not believe me, I don't give a damn," Bobby growls. "I'm working here. Unless you've got something important to talk about, like a job. If not, then shut it."

"I wanted to apologise for what happened last time I was here, what I did. It was out of line and I shouldn't have…" It takes a moment for you to realise that the bizarre noise he's making is a laugh, although not like any you're heard before. Creaking and miserable, it comes from a dark corner of him you'd rather not know about. And then he begins to speak.

"I'm paralysed," he snaps, as though he wants the words to hurt you, or maybe just to hurt himself. "I'll never walk again. I'm stuck in this damn chair in this damn house and there's nothing I or anyone else can do about it. In comparison, why the hell should I care about one girl getting drunk one night and trying to kiss me?"

You hang your head. "I'm sorry," you mumble at your shoes. "I'm sorry for everything." The anger fades from his eyes and he pats your small hand with one of his big ones.

"For the record," he says, feigning interest in his book again, "I refused you because you were drunk. I don't take advantage of drunk girls, particularly ones who would come to regret it in the morning."

"You think I'd regret it in the morning?" you ask softly, your voice hoarse. He merely shrugs.

"I'm old," he says, brutally honest. "Older than you," he amends when you open your mouth to start protesting. "I've got enough baggage to fill half an airport. And now I'm stuck in this damn chair."

"You're stupid," you reply fondly. "I only drunk kiss people I actually like in the first place." He cocks an eyebrow.

"Think about that sentence again, and I'm the stupid one?"

You grin.

"What are you doing here?" he asks hours later, after dinner. You're giving the alcohol a miss this time, though; you don't entirely trust yourself.

"I was in the vicinity," you shrug. Actually you've just driven the breadth of four states to get here, but he doesn't need to know that. "I thought I'd drop in on you when I'm not bleeding or knackered for a change."

"That does make a change," he agrees. "Especially since your couch has been replaced."

"I noticed," you answer, eyeing the bed. "It would be very rude of me to take your bed." Despite this, a yawn splits your face, and a smile twitches the corner of Bobby's lips. You scowl. "I swear, I'm preconditioned to fall asleep every time I come here. Like a dog freaking out whenever it hears its leash being rattled."

"You know you just compared yourself to a dog, right?"

"There are worse things to be compared to," you shrug. "Like a goldfish. Or a hyena. A squirrel. A killer clown. Speaking of, how are the Winchesters? Word on the street is that Dean got the proverbial angelic tap on the shoulder to be an archangel's vessel." Bobby shakes his head in bewilderment.

"I don't know where you get your information from, girl," he says sharply, and you pat the bag you've dropped on the floor.

"I ask, and sometimes I get an answer. Oh, don't scowl so," you reprimand lightly. "It's not true black magic, not really. More like an alternative to the Internet. Now stop avoiding the question." He rolls his eyes, but complies.

"They're fine. Hunting. You might not have noticed, but we have an apocalypse on our hands."

"I noticed," you retort dryly. "The entire world going to shit was sort of a giveaway. I was referring more to the whole destiny, Michael vs. Lucifer grudge match."

"It's not gonna happen," he says immediately, and you get the feeling he's repeating something he's said many times to those boys. "We'll work something out."

"Well, let me know if I can help," you say lightly. Bobby frowns at you.

"Why?" he asks bluntly. "Sam and Dean aren't exactly your favourite people." You make a face at him.

"It's a whole lot bigger than that," you reply in exasperation. "Stopping the end of the world trumps most minor personality differences. Look, this is how it is. I'm a dull, ordinary human. I exorcise demons and lay ghosts to rest. That's my life. I can't imagine being part of something great, but I can track and hunt. I'm just saying, if you - or they - need anything, then call."

He's eyeing you with a weird expression, and you shift uncomfortably in your chair under his gaze. "You surprise me, girl," he says finally, and it may be the finest compliment anyone's ever paid you.

**_vi_**

He pulls open the door.

"You look appalling," you comment with brutal honesty.

"If your dead wife came back to life as a zombie, you might be a bit rough around the edges too," he growls. You wince in sympathy.

"I heard."

"You and the rest of the damn world. You going to stand there all night or are you going to come in?"

"Come in," you decide, but he's already wheeling himself away, and you're left to show yourself into the house.

"By the way," you call, dropping your bag onto the floor. "I've never had a wife. Wouldn't mind one, though. Cook me dinners, keep Kitten shipshape."

"Keep you shipshape, more like," he grumbles. "So what brings you here, if you're not bleeding?" You grin at the familiar joke.

"I was hoping for a drink, maybe a four course meal if you've got one handy."

"The drink I can handle," he replies, but you don't hear him, you're already asleep.

Long hours later, the sun is setting and you're cradling a fourth glass of sweet, sweet alcohol. You pour yourself another, and Bobby eyeballs you from his desk. "Go easy there," he advises. You're sitting on his bed, back to the wall, dreamily contemplating the dust motes in the golden air.

"Why?" you ask, the warmth and the drink making you lazy. "I'm not on the job right now."

"Your tolerance for that stuff is laughable. Going to get drunk and kiss me again?" he asks dryly. You snort, setting down your bourbon.

"Why don't we just skip to the main event? I hate the morning after migraine." You expect a sarcastic quip, but when the silence lengthens you glance up at him. "What?"

"Wouldn't be the worst idea in the world," he grunts.

"I thought you didn't -"

"Didn't want to take advantage of a drunk girl?" You glower.

"And that's another thing. I'm not a girl. I'll be thirty next year."

"Thirty. Wow," he drawls, and there's the sarcasm you've been looking for. "My problem was with you being out of your head drunk, not any lack of attraction for you."

You're more than a little flattered. "Thanks, but what about your wife?" He bristles. "Not like that! I meant because it's been so soon since - since -"

"I've been with other women since my wife died. Her brief spell as a member of the undead didn't change that." And there goes another of your excuses, but you've got a trump card up your sleeve.

"And, not to be insulting, can you even, um…" You wave a hand in his general direction, feeling heat creep into your cheeks. Far from being insulted, he looks amused at your mild embarrassment.

"Get it up?" You wince.

"I was trying to be delicate about it." He snorts, and ruefully you concede the point.

"You've never been delicate in the entire time I've known you, Sarah. Why start now?"

"Fine," you growl in exasperation. "So can you?"

"Can I what?" You get the distinct impression that he's enjoying your discomfort. _Get a grip,_ you chastise yourself. You used to be a nurse, for God's sake.

"Jesus Christ, you don't make it half difficult. Have you got feeling below the belt?"

"Yes," he retorts.

"Wow. Um. Nice. Good for you." He snorts, but you notice he's slowed on the drinking.

The next few hours are spent in a companionable silence. He reads at his desk, you read in an armchair, and the stars come out outside the window. A clock gently chimes eleven, and he wheels himself out from behind the desk, bending to untie his shoes.

"Having a grandpa nap?" you ask just to needle him, and he flips you the bird, dropping his shoes to the floor.

"Says the woman who spends half her life asleep."

"Screw you." He lifts an eyebrow that says, eloquently and completely without words, very well then, as he lines up his wheelchair next to the bed and prepares to move. You stay in your chair, determined to finish your page.

"You're not going to offer me help?" he gripes, but you sense a weight of emotion beneath the simple words. You look up, quizzical.

"Why would I?" you ask frankly. "You live alone. If you can't get yourself onto a bed on your own, then how do you cope?" He shoots you an unreadable glance.

"Damn fools keep trying to help me," he grumbles.

"Who? The Winchesters?"

"Them, Rufus, whoever else comes knocking." Some long dormant part of you flickers into life.

"They just don't know how to handle it," you explain, the words coming as easy as they did seven years ago at the hospitals you worked at. "It's a common reaction. They do it because they care, but sometimes it can seem patronising or condescending. I knew one guy who threw a bedpan at his son once. And it was full. Just cause the guy tried to hand him a coffee mug." He casts you a suspicious glance.

"Who were you before you were a hunter?" he questions, heaving himself onto the single mattress.

"I told you, I was a nurse."

"A garden variety, 9 to 5 nurse?"

"No," you concede reluctantly. "I specialised. Did my graduate program in a rehab hospital."

"Rehab," he repeats.

"Yeah. Car accidents, strokes… paralysis." He slumps flat on his back, head pillowed, staring up at the ceiling. Spontaneously you perch yourself in his wheelchair by the bed, reaching for his hand, but he pulls away. There is a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. It might have been the exertion but then again, it might have been something else. "Bobby, are you _nervous_?" He grunts, but says nothing. "Dude, it's not like it's your first time at the rodeo."

"I know that!"

"Then what?"

"It's just… been a while, that's all. Why are you even here, anyway. Go out and find some guy with functioning legs to get your rocks off." To his surprise - and yours, actually - you laugh out loud, but it's an ugly sound.

"You think this is about just… getting laid?" He won't meet your eyes. "Believe it or not, just because I'm not a supermodel, I have no trouble in that department." You draw in a deep breath. "But do you know how long it's been since I felt safe? I hunt alone, I live alone. I have no family and very few friends. Sure, I could fuck some stranger I pick up in a bar. Some random guy I have to find a subtle way of spilling holy water or salt on. And don't even get me started on the whole 'Oops, I accidentally cut you with my silver knife!' song and dance. Clumsy me, indeed."

"I get it," he says. "No need for the monologue." You scowl.

"Oh, bite me."

"If you're into that," he says, and shuffles over. "Come here."

Tentatively, you lie down next to him, his chest to your back, and he drapes an arm over you. "You're trembling," he observes, and you tense. "Hey. Don't do that." His voice washes over you, the cadence of it familiar and soothing. "Been a while for you too, then?"

"Since I left home," you murmur numbly. "Going on six years, now. Haven't trusted anyone since." You hesitate a moment. "It's so, so bloody different here!" you burst out. "For Christ's sake, there's more people in California than there is in all of Australia. The cities are so big, there's so many tiny little towns. And… I miss home. Yours is like the only American accent that doesn't piss me off."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he replies, one gentle hand carding through your hair. You almost moan at that sensation alone, sinking into his touch. It's been so long since you let yourself relax around someone. "You're a moron, by the way."

"How do you figure that?" you ask idly, toying with the hand resting on your hip.

"Not trusting anyone, I mean. It's ridiculous. It'll get you killed."

"I trust you," you point out. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Still, Sarah -"

"Stop trying to talk me out of it," you interrupt. "What I'm trying to say, very poorly I might add, is that you've been acting like this is me doing you a favour, when actually? It's the other way round."

"Idjit," he murmurs, voice gentler than you've ever heard it, as you turn over to look him in the eye.

"Agreed," you remark, and lean in to kiss him.

And damn, he's good at it. He threads a hand into your hair and pulls you closer, yanking out your ponytail so your curls tumble wild down your shoulders. The scratch of his beard tickles pleasantly, like scratching an itch you didn't know you had, and at first you're content to kiss lazily and run your hands down his back. But it's been a long time, too damn long, and before you know it you've straddled him and his hands are fumbling at the bra strap hidden under your shirt.

"For God's sake," you snap, flinging your shirt over your head to grant him better access. Chuckling, he touched the scar on your stomach.

"Healed up well, didn't it?" he brags.

"Yes, you're a fucking genius. I'll give you a Nobel if you can do my bra one handed."

"Smartass," he says, but flicks the catch anyway and your breasts spill free. His eyes widen, just a little, and a sensation like triumph tinged with happiness rings through you. You've always counted your tits among your best features. He fits his hands to your skin and oh, it's splendid, it's falling and being caught all in one, when his rough fingers tweak your nipples and a moan is torn from your lips against your will.

You help him out of his trousers and his socks, hesitating on the waistband of his boxers as he yanks off his shirt and you fumble at the button of your jeans. "Go on, then," he says irritably, and you wriggle off him to pull the denim off your legs. "Undressing was so much easier with _legs_," he mutters, and you reach forward to smack him lightly on the shoulder.

"You want to have a pity party or can we get it on?" you ask rhetorically, slipping out of your underwear and enjoying his wondering assessment at your bare skin, the long lines of your limbs. You climb back on top of him, relishing the sensation of skin on skin without clothes barring the way, and then snake down his body to press him against your lips.

You've never really liked giving head, but for once you want to. You have no idea why. Maybe because it's him, it's Bobby, grouchy gruff cantankerous Bobby, and you don't love him but you trust him and that's more than enough, in this scary new world. And it makes sense that every sexual activity you've had in the past means nothing to this; you lick him from base to tip and relish the way his hands clench at his sides. Emboldened, you open your mouth, humming, and the world condenses into his fists in your hair and the soft, broken off noises he's making.

"My turn," you whisper, when his gasps and motions are becoming more desperate, and you reach for the condom and slide it on. Shamelessly you grind against him, thrilling at the way his fingers find your slickness and seem to know just where to touch you.

"If you're trying to distract me, it's working," you say lightly, meeting his eyes, feeling the tip of him nudge against you.

"You're gonna have to do all the work," he tells you, and a weird sensation like bubbling joy fills your chest.

"Lazy," you tease, and are rewarded with a smack on the arse for your trouble.

"Behave or I'll do it again," he says, voice a dark rumble, and you lower your hips, enjoying the strangled groan that tears from his throat.

"I absolutely intend to not behave, then," you retort, and for long minutes there is only silence, save for the rasp of breathing and the low moans pulled from your chest. "Fuck, Bobby," you gasp, resting your hands on his chest, your hips slamming against his. His eyes are dilated wide, his hands hard on your hips, and it feels like forever since you've felt so unequivocally _alive_.

"Are you -"

"Little more, little more," you babble, moving your fingers in tiny circles on your clit. "Just a little - ah!"

And Christ, it's been so long since you've come without doing it solo, and you've forgotten the sweet, rich feel of someone's body alongside yours. He holds you tightly, strong arms lacing you into his embrace until you can stop shaking. Until you can move again, finding the strength to lie flat against him, chest to chest, grinding your hips against his.

It's paradise.

He sinks his teeth into your neck when he comes, the sensation of teeth biting deep almost enough to wring another orgasm out of your overstimulated body. And long after you've cleaned up, after you've dragged a sheet over the pair of you, after you've dozed happily against his chest for a while, he speaks.

"You really feel safe with a broken down, legless old man?"

"You've got legs," you retort drowsily. "They just don't work so good." But you put your head up anyway, looking into his eyes like some stupid romance movie shit. But hey, if it gets the point across. "I feel safe with my friend Bobby, a hunter," you emphasise, poking him in the chest with every couple of words. "Don't be a dick. You'll walk again."

"How do you know?" he asks, all gruffness, but you can see a glint of hope behind the abrupt terseness.

"I've got a feeling," you reply. "Now can we please go to sleep?"

**_vii_**

(He gets his legs back. And after Sam Winchester ends up in hell with a couple of archangels, after Dean Winchester goes off to play house with one of his old girlfriends, after Bobby comes home and you drop in for alcohol and a snooze.

Then? Then he fucks you all over the house. And it's _awesome_.)

* * *

**_Timeline:_**

i - between 2x15 and 2x21.

ii - between 3x04 and 3x08.

iii - between 4x02 and 4x06.

iv - between 4x14 and 4x16.

v - between 5x07 and 5x10.

vi - between 5x15 to 5x18.

vii - after season five but before season 6.


End file.
